A Life Enough
by Jedi Amoira
Summary: With some help from Duncan, Elan Cousland attempts to come to terms with her parents' dictate that she leave Highever in order to live a new life as a Grey Warden. Some Origin spoilers. Obviously.


Disclaimer-- As much as I wish otherwise, I do not own DAO. I do not own any of the characters there-in, including the female Cousland origin character, though I would like to think my interpretation of her is my own. I do not own the environment, events, dialogue, etc. I expect and will receive nothing from this story but the joy of paying homage to excellence. (Imitation, after all, is sincere flattery.) Nonetheless, I do work hard on my little stories, and I love them. Please don't repost or reprint them without my knowledge. Further, like all fanfic writers, I am fueled by reviews. If you like and want more, please encourage me by telling me so. If you see something you dislike or think needs to be fixed, I will be happy to learn...but please be gentle!

Note-- This stand-alone is a fragment of what or may not eventually become a longer, more comprehensive fic. If I waited until that fic was in a condition to post, I would never post at all, and I wanted to post.

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Duncan the Grey Warden had a knack for moving silently through shadows that far surpassed anything Elan had imagined, let alone seen.

Several times he signaled her to be still just as—or even before—she saw the flicker of movement that warned of an approaching soldier, darting into range as she hastened to obey, sinking his dagger into the side of the man's neck, or right between his eyes, or with perfect deadly accuracy through his heart, and neatly easing what was left to the ground without a whisper of disturbance.

Duncan kept moving long after they'd seen—or heard—the last of the men. Elan didn't even think to protest. It was better—essential, actually—to put as much distance as they could between the castle and themselves before anyone realized they were missing. Even if she and Duncan weren't immediately recognized, anyone who caught sight of them might well kill them just for being close enough to the castle to notice something seemed amiss.

Besides, stopping would have potentially meant thinking, and Elan really wanted to avoid doing that...for as long as possible. Or ever again.

Walking—if moving at such a grueling pace could still be considered walking—quickly became familiar, even soothing, like being lulled into a long and dreamless sleep.

If the Maker had any mercy left in him, perhaps she would never wake.

Eventually, Duncan motioned for a stop. Elan wasn't really familiar with battle sign, but that one, at least, had quickly become clear. As she shuddered to a halt, she realized her legs were as shaky as jelly left in summer sun. She hastily steadied herself against the trunk of the nearest tree, narrowly preventing herself from toppling headfirst into a stream.

"We're clear, I think," Duncan murmured, his voice quiet just the same. "We might take time to catch our breath and get our bearings."

Elan began to nod and stopped as she felt her balance tip precariously.

Duncan, his dark eyes inscrutable, took her elbow. "Here," he said firmly, "perhaps you ought to have a seat." Elan collapsed obediently onto the rock he'd positioned her near. At her feet, her mabari hound Woofus began to lap at the stream, gulping so noisily it made Elan wince. "A fine idea," Duncan said approvingly. "I think you'll feel more yourself with a little water."

Elan stared at him a bit blankly. "How can you feel like yourself when your entire life has been laid to waste before your eyes?" she demanded, then blushed hotly as she realized she spoken the words aloud.

Duncan made no response, but simply waited. Elan glared at him defiantly for a few seconds, until she recollected the way her father had named service to the Grey Wardens as her duty, first and foremost.

Sighing slightly, Elan eased down enough to scoop up a bit of water cupped in the palm of her hand; it only served to illustrate the dryness of her lips and mouth, the heat steaming in her cheeks. She took a couple more sips, then leaned over and dunked her head under the water. Emerging, she shook head, scattering loose water droplets about, and took a deep breath.

"Fine. Have it your way," she said grudgingly. "That does help—a bit."

Duncan nodded without looking particularly justified, which was probably just as well. "We've been going southeast—though more east than south—I think," he said after a bit. "Estimating time—especially on a starless night—is tricky, but it looks as though dawn may be coming."

"I've never done much traveling," Elan said, her voice dry and husky, as if from long disuse. She nearly added, and nearly choked on the words—_I liked being just where I was._ "But that should put us somewhere in the vicinity of Harper's Folly. If I'm remembering what I was told by Master Aldous with any accuracy, that is. I was never particularly interested in geography."

"The idea of a village is tempting," Duncan admitted. "We could use food and supplies."

"It would be nice to clean and oil our armor," Elan said as evenly as she could manage. "The blood has to be hard on the leather...and...not to...I..._the smell_," she finished, half-pleading, half-sheepish.

"I am sorry," Duncan said, and Elan believed that he was, "but I believe we're too close to the Castle to risk going into a village where one—or both—of us might be recognized. In fact, I think it best if we make do without a fire as well—at least while we're in the Bannorn," he added. What might have been a fleeting expression of pain crossed his face. "For now, I think it best for us to rest and wait for the shadows to return before we continue south."

"Good thing it's not yet winter," Elan said, pained by her momentary amusement. "Nonetheless, it is cool enough we might want shelter, don't you think?"

"We are more exposed both to wind and to roving eyes than I might like," Duncan agreed. His dark eyes flickered. "However, I think that rock you're sitting on might be willing to lend us its former abode."

Elan followed his gaze to a deep indentation within the hillside—from which the aforementioned rock appeared to have been ripped at some point—hung over with long grasses mellowed to late autumn gold and crusted with frost. Even if she had been looking in that direction, she might not have noticed the grotto at first, due to the heavy tangle of tree roots that seemed to be trying to close around it. "Well, I suppose that will do, Warden," Elan said wryly. "That will do."

She stood and took a staggering step.

Duncan signed stop again. Elan halted immediately, already accustomed to to obeying _that _order without question. "It will be easier for me to care for that cut of yours out here where the light is best."

"What?" Elan blinked at him in confusion.

Duncan gestured toward her left forearm.

Faintly, as if from a dream, came a vague impression of throwing up her arm to block, misjudging, stepping forward a little too swiftly...she looked down and saw a narrow but deep-looking gash angling under her gauntlet. "Oh, that. It's not even bleeding."

"Not anymore," Duncan agreed. "And that is part of what concerns me."

Elan shrugged. "Not sure what you can do about it, exactly. Considering we have the clothes on our backs, three daggers and one sword between us."

Duncan smiled slightly. "Better rudimentary care than nothing," he insisted. "We can at least wash the wound well...and...I don't know how to make the proper thick poultices from it, but I do know that that herb there is elfroot...and that packing a wound with it ought to help keep it from becoming infected until we reach the mages at Ostagar."

"Mages," Elan repeated blankly. She'd never stopped to think that the mages of the Circle were probably just as obligated as everyone else to aid the King.

"Their skills on the battlefield are formidable," Duncan informed her, "both to damage and to salvage men. They can heal many wounds as if they never were...but time is always an important factor in such things. Your arm won't be seriously injured by such a short delay, but you'll always bear a scar to remind you of this night, I'm afraid."

"A scar to bear witness to all the scars that will never be seen," Elan said thoughtfully. "As it should be, I believe."

"Very well," Duncan said with a slight incline of his head that might have indicated agreement, or even respect. "This may sting a bit."

It did, but that was nothing at all to how it throbbed and burned when she awoke. Elan's head felt heavy and sick, and she could have sworn it was pounding in time with the throbbing of the cut in a way that made her want to scream.

They walked for most of the night. When they stopped, Duncan changed the dressing on her arm before he disappeared in search of something for the two of them and the mabari to eat. Elan didn't ask where he'd gotten the bread and cheese he came back with. She was fairly certain he'd stolen it from one of the farmholds nearby.

She supposed she ought to feel disapproving, or at least slightly guilty, but she couldn't quite gather the energy to manage it, and they had to eat something if they wanted to survive. As it was, the very thought of food made her stomach twist in protest, but she worried down her share of it, if only because she was determined not to fail as a Grey Warden so soon after her father had charged her with the responsibility of becoming one.

Near the end of the third night, they entered the outskirts of the Brecilian Forest. Duncan decreed that the drawbacks to traveling through a forest at night far outweighed the benefits. The drawback to that plan being that—as it was day and as Duncan was anxious to reach Ostagar—they had to keep marching.

When they finally stopped, he announced they were close enough to Ostagar he thought they might be taken for any of the numerous groups of incoming fighters or outgoing farmers. This, coupled with the greater concealment of the trees, meant that at long last they could have a fire. The tone in which he conveyed this news, and the haste with which he began to put his plan to action, displayed far more enthusiasm than Elan could muster.

She sat and stared at the flames for a while—it might well have been hours—wondering, and trying not to wonder, what had become of Gilmore, of Dairren, of Fergus...and slowly the flames seemed to take on the aspect of the funeral pyre she'd been unable to set alight for her parents. Slowly, deliberately, she began to pull the pins from the braided coils of her hair.

The braids slithered heavily down her back, their ends brushing her elbows and the dip of her waist. They caught on the hilts of the daggers still strapped to her back. Elan reached her right hand behind her and wrenched one of the daggers free. A sharp, swift jerk of the blade dropped a ragged braid into her waiting hand.

She moved to repeat the action on the other braid, but the angle made the motion awkward. Elan made a sharp sound of frustration deep in her throat and jerked the blade again—violently—in vain. Woofus whimpered.

"If I may?" Duncan intervened, his dark eyes on her face and gentle.

Elan started, her fingers tightening on the hilt of the dagger. Duncan waited patiently. Finally, after a long pause, Elan spun the blade, placing the hilt hesitantly into his hand. He stood and walked around her, his fingers barely grazed her skin...and, without the faintest tug, the other braid dropped into her lap.

"Mother," she whispered, wistfully stroking one woven length of the braid. "Father," she said thickly, stroking the other. She lifted her hand from her hair and pressed her knuckles to her mouth.

Duncan reached out as if to put his hand on her shoulder and paused.

"You are gone," Elan said flatly. She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. "But your sacrifices will not be forgotten—and neither shall either of you. I will remember...I will live...and I will _always do my duty—_though I do it as a Grey Warden and not as a Cousland—so I swear."

At this, Duncan's hand did come down onto her shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.

Woofus gave a short, definite yip of agreement.

She threw the braids into the center of the fire and watched them smoke. The smell of the burning hair was absolutely awful.

"Duncan," Elan said softly as they walked away from the remains of the fire the next day. "You may not have succeeded, but I thank you for saving my father—for trying to save him—all the same. I just...wanted you to know that. And...I thank you for...well, not saving me, exactly, I suppose, but...for offering me a life to live, so to speak. I'll do my best to make the most of it."

"Ah, child," Duncan said with a rueful half-shake of his head and something that might almost have been a smile, "It will be thanks enough if you can manage it."


End file.
